


Resilience

by Isala_Vhenan



Series: As Ehn Dea Isalem [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anti Celene, Anti Gaspard, Gen, Magic, Minor Violence, Other, death mention, genocide mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28053108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isala_Vhenan/pseuds/Isala_Vhenan
Summary: For the third day of our daily Hanukkah prompts our concept/keyword was "resilience" so I wrote this piece on Isala
Relationships: Dalish Elf | Elves & Lavellan, Lavellan & Lavellan Clan (Dragon Age)
Series: As Ehn Dea Isalem [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697836





	Resilience

The armor cut into her like molten knives against her skin, the red of the Chantry flag burning like a sacrificial brazier, all that was missing was a stake to tie her to. The Templar’s insignia glowed in the low light, white hot like the brand they wielded, low chanting like broken glass in Isala’s ears as the burning sword and sun grew closer. Gauntleted arms held her to the ground as she struggled wildly, desperately trying to escape, mana building up inside of her like a font ready to explode. 

The brand came closer and closer as Isala lashed out and screamed that they couldn’t do this, it wasn’t right, they couldn’t treat people like this. Their laughter rang in her mind like cruel music. Her magic broke the bonds and whipped out to push the Templars back, roots bursting through the cobbled stone floor to pull them down against the ground and crush their armor into the flesh beneath. She scrambled away, slipping on the blood and running as fast as she could. The shouting behind Isala was almost drowned out by her heartbeat, the only thought in her mind to run, to escape, get as far as she could, to survive. 

A blow came from behind and Isala fell to ground, breath knocked out of her as she knelt there, trying desperately to drag in air as she gasped. The Templar who had struck her made a sound of disgust, bearing down on her, shield and sword in hand, gaze burning with hatred behind his helm. The door was within reach, freedom not far beyond it. Isala braced herself to run as the Templar spoke, rage and scorn making his voice mangled behind the metal of his armor.

“Who do you think you are, knife-ear?”

Isala knew who she was.

She was one of the People.

She stood up.

Golden light flooded the ballroom, gilded pillars and applique lit up by the candelabra like a burning pyre. True flames would soon come upon the Winter Palace, though both the nobility and the Elder One’s agent had no idea of this. Isala surveyed the ballroom and its occupants of gaudy vipers and carefully neutral elves. The eyes of the People were downcast but saw more than the humans could ever hope to imagine. Inside them burned a light that the nobility, for all their wealth and resources, could never hope to match or quench. Here Isala sat on the chaise lounge in elven regalia, bare feet placed gracefully on the marble floor, festival mask hiding her features as she looked at their surroundings. Her disgust for the hoarding of wealth and land drowning out any admiration Isala might have held for the beauty of the space. This wealth, this beauty, this land, it was not theirs.

Ochre eyes were drawn to Duke Gaspard behind the mask as he laughed raucously, downing another stiff drink before continuing his conversation. She thought of the rite of passage for chevaliers in killing as many elves as possible in the slums they had been forced into. She thought of the hunts he had led for the Dalish and the requests he had made to drive the elves from the Dales by force. Isala thought of how just it was that the duke would become the hunted. 

From the other end of the hall sounded tinkling laughter, Celene carrying on polite conversation with high ranking nobles, blue eyes as cold and unfeeling as ice behind her mask, the deep blue of her dress like blood still trapped in veins. Isala wondered if the Empress knew how the Alienage had been stained red with blood and flame when she had ordered the purge. She wondered what the Empress had done to distract herself while her people had screamed and fought for their lives, what jewels the Empress had chosen to wear that was stained with the blood of her people, how easily she had stomached the rich palace cuisine while hundreds of elves were slaughtered. From the shadows stepped Briala, interrupting Isala’s musings to offer her a coy invitation in a low voice, her eyes burning with the same light of the other elven agents. The same light that burned in Isala’s own eyes behind the mask.

“Shall we dance, Inquisitor?”

Isala knew who she was.

She was one of the People.

She stood up.

The well coiled around her like a giant snake, water lapping up to seep into her skin and rush through her, pooling in her eyes like unshed tears. Her mouth opened in surprise and the well poured into her, hundreds of whispers clamoring inside her mind to speak in Elvish, murmured words as familiar as a childhood lullaby. Emotions swept her up like the water that twisted around her waist and pressed against her mind. Light brown skin was lit from within by an ethereal blue glow, her eyes opening wider with what she saw. The sigils that appeared on Isala’s skin held hundreds of Elvish words, their meaning blurring in her vision as she tilted her head back, hair spilling behind her as she opened her mouth to cry out, overwhelmed. 

Secrets and consciousness filled her to the extent Isala felt she might burst, the singing resonating through her as knowledge poured into her, a font ready to overflow. Memories and ideas and emotions rushed through her like the riptide, pulling her along with such strength she almost lost herself. The blue glow that lit her from within grew and turned white, sigils pulsing on her skin, Elvish script moving over her body like a snake coiling around her limbs as the whispers grew louder and louder until they were all she could hear, drowning out the concerned cries of companions and Solas’ desperate call of her name.

Finally the light grew more muted, the voices quieting into soothing coos as the well settled inside her and the sigils faded. Isala fell to her knees, chest heaving with her labored breaths, tears streaming from her eyes, head pounding as she swayed with these new voices. She murmured in response, Elvish rolling off her tongue like the tears in her eyes. They whispered in her mind to ask her a question.

_ “Ehn ane ma?”  _

Isala knew who she was.

She was one of the People.

She stood up.

The blank faced reflection stared back at Isala from where she sat by the water, golden ink held in trembling hands, scroll unfurled on the rocks beside her. She read over the Elvish again, eyes tripping over the words in her anxious haste to once again feel the burning sting of heat beneath her skin. She yearned again to feel the blood ink sink into her as naturally as falling into sleep, the pain drowned out by pride and a sense of belonging so intense her bones seemed to sing. The clan she had met had given her the formula and instructions, as well as their blessing. They had recommended she take on the process of reclamation herself but now as her fingers shook with nervous energy and anticipation Isala wondered whether she could carry it through. 

The longing pulled at her as though it would rip her apart and Isala closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to center herself. She had ruminated on the Creators, recounted their teachings and purposes, felt the pull that led her to the vallaslin she had designed. It was right, and it was hers, and she could do it. She had to. Not because someone she had trusted had told her it was so, not because of fear or misunderstanding or difference, not because of pressure or confusion, but because it was her choice.

When she picked up the implement her hand stilled and an almost divine calm fell over her, fingers steady even as the tool pricked her skin and drew blood, golden ink gladly slipping below the surface, as though eager to take up temporary refuge there. The burning sting of ink beneath her skin was so intoxicating Isala had to suppress her cries not from pain but from elation as she saw the design take shape on her face, golden ink blossoming on light brown skin as ochre eyes shone with unshed tears. When she finished and set the ink and tools down she leaned forward on her knees, arms weak and body trembling, her breath fast as though she had been running. But she wasn’t running, not from anyone or anything. The reflection she saw in the water was not a stranger or an outsider, but herself; stronger and wiser and a part of them.

_ “Elvhen eolasa.” _

Isala knew who she was.

She was one of the People.

She stood up.

Her arm sparked and splintered, green light burning like molten fire in her veins as it climbed up her limb, all feeling in it had fled except for pain that seemed to lace through her entire body. It was quenched only for a moment as soft lips met hers again, beautiful and gentle and whole; erasing all other sensation except for the rightness of his body against hers.

It was an embrace so firm but tender that she felt she might explode into molten light herself; exhaustion and weight of grief the only things tethering her to the ground where they knelt. He whispered against her lips a dozen apologies, a dozen confessions, a dozen wishes. She would grant them if she could, but it was up to him now, if he would only let her help. Isala couldn’t say when they parted, only that they did, his russet cheeks glistening with tears, armor shining bright against the eluvian, dark locs swaying in the breeze that was too gentle for this moment that wrenched everything inside of her apart. His parting words tore at her with a pain stronger than any she had felt before in her life.

When he was gone she couldn’t move, still feeling the phantom pain where her arm had been, body racked with sobs as she bent over her knees and wept, pounding the ground with her remaining hand; grieving and angry for what had been lost, what they had had, what could have been. But she could not stay there. Not when there was still a chance to make him see, to help them, to achieve what could still be.

_ “Tel’nadas.” _

Isala knew who she was.

She was one of the People.

She stood.

**Author's Note:**

> Elvish featured in text:  
> Ehn ane ma (Who are you)  
> Elvhen eolasa (the People know)  
> Tel'nadas (Nothing is inevitable)


End file.
